


Bleeding Colors

by Dudlerase



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Art, Blindness, Color Blindness, Confessions, Crushes, Crying, Dreams, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Photography, Rain, Sad, Secret Crush, Separations, Snow, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dudlerase/pseuds/Dudlerase
Summary: George begins to lose even more of his vision, the world slowly turning gray, and as he descends into panic he wonders if it's because of his secret crush for his best friend. Is this karma?The colors were gone.It was no longer funny anymore. The game that they had played for so long had just disintegrated in front of his eyes. Ironic, isn't it.There were no colors.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	1. Bluebird

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first work so please be nice! I used to write a LOT in sixth grade but now I'm in twelfth and it feels really weird. Also, I will try to update and write as much as I can, but I do not have a coherent schedule. If people actually like this I'll continue :D  
> Also please don't copy my work! Thanks :D
> 
> [Forgive me for the formatting I still have to figure it out haha]

The colors were gone.

It was no longer funny anymore. The game that they had played for so long had just disintegrated in front of his eyes. _Ironic, isn't it_.

There were no colors.

Something so simple; something that Clay had teased him about for years, hurtling him into the unknown. The mixes of yellows, browns, and blues became grays. Something that had been trudging in the back of his mind had finally gained grounding. His fears finally coming true. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, his breath hitched, and droplets of sweat slid down his face. A cold sweat had settled in. George's room began closing in on him, and the already musty smell engulfing the room became severely enhanced; vomit was piling up in his throat. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of a blackout. _Well, this is a type of high I didn't want._

Why did he have to wake up like this? This day was supposed to be perfect; hanging out with Clay and maybe even going out to the cinema. The sensation of something warm snuggling up against him spun him back to reality. Looking down on him was Cat. Relief.

He might have been panicked, but he always prioritized his cat over himself. Cat snuggled up to him; he knew she could sense something wrong; his panic had swelled and filled the room, stirring her awake. "I'm fine baby girl, let's get you some food," he cooed, rubbing his finger against her fluffy head; she purred lazily. He examined her, although she was already gray, the colors seemed to mix together even more, everything merging. The realization finally hit, _What the fuck am I going to do about photography?_ He could feel himself slowly falling back into panic.

"Stop it, George, you are okay; you can still see. Not yet. Not yet..." He mumbled through his breath in hopes of giving himself the slightest reassurance.

As he got out of bed, the tapping of rain began to feel his ears; _how had he not heard it before?_ The patter of the rain began to distract him from his worries as he stumbled down the stairs. He hummed in thought, slowly settling into auto-drive. He refused to notice his world growing duller with every minute and took comfort in the rain, always staying the same.

As he reached the bottom of the old, oak stairs, he headed towards the kitchen. The kitchen itself was small and slightly dirty, damp rags piled on the side of the counter hidden away enough for George to forget about them any time he was taking out the laundry. He always tried to keep the dishes clean and eat something, but he would inevitably fail. He would go stagnant sitting in his room fervently editing and do nothing else, except feeding Cat, of course. Like the kitchen, the entire house was small.

It was cheap, rundown, and old, but he had still loved it; even though now it pained him to even open his eyes, as he was reminded of the fading colors. The house had a comfortable old smell, maybe it was mold, or maybe it was just the stench of worn-down wood. It had fit his price point and kept him insulated and warm.

As soon as the food filled the bowl, George had wondered what he had done to deserve this. He sat with his fingers pressed up to his temples, rubbing them slowly. He could feel a headache forming, and once again, the panic was flooding his head; he felt like he was asphyxiating. Maybe... this was his payback for falling in love with his best friend. Maybe, this was a sign of how shitty his thoughts were, of how horrible a person he truly was, and of how many people he would hurt again in the future. _I never deserved anything. I never deserved Clay; this is my payback._

Nausea flooded him; he let out a deep sigh, a small whimper following, "Damnit maybe..." George looked out once again to the glass slightly stained with humidity and mother earth's tears, "I need to get out."

Grabbing his shoes, he went to go face the rain; it wasn't a good idea to go out without a jacket, but he didn't seem to care. He wanted, no, he needed to feel the rain, even if it meant contracting a cold. The rain felt like tiny kisses, embracing him with their cold hugs, and maybe it would help clear his head.

He quickly grabbed his keys and stepped outside, locking his door behind him; he let his feet take him anywhere. He didn't care as long as they moved. A few cars roared by him, but otherwise, it was silent. The road to George's apartment had a few trees and plenty of small niche stores. He lived in the city he grew up in, a college city, the college that he inevitably went to for a year before he dropped out, sat in the center of the city encompassed by restaurants and the park.

The park held many festivals and holiday events, his favorite being the lighting of the Christmas tree that he went to with Clay. He smiled at the thought of him. _Dream,_ George's tall best friend and sadly, crush. Before he could continue fonding over Clay, he realized he was passing the park. His feet slowed as if pondering the thought of going in; they did.

The park was barren, only a few people passing through the popular paths every so often. Small puddles created moats in between the grass and the stone path, getting bigger by the minute. The rain barreling down from the sky. Crickets chirped, hiding under leaves for any protection, and squirrels were hurridly hoarding acorns, preparing for the deep and sharp coldness of the winter to come. All these small actions of the wildlife were the usual, yet each animal's themselves appeared duller.

His feet stopped. He was in front of the blue mural. The mural itself was painted against the Welcome Center that George visited frequently. It was dulled, completely gray. The bluebird was gray.

He crouched to his knees shaking.

The mural of the bluebird held so many memories in George's mind. It had attracted him the first moment it had been painted, the lively blue the one thing he could truly see. The Vibrance of it was so alluring and comforting. Even when the people at school bullied him, he knew he could still see the true colors of that mural. It had been the one thing that stayed the same throughout the years. Even when his parents had split, and his family dog had passed, the mural had been his comfort, his safe haven, and his hideaway.

"It-It's over," he croaked, voice breaking. Tears were streaming down his face, and he descended into full panic. George began to hyperventilate, his legs becoming mush as they gave out from underneath him. 

"George?" A voice intruded in on George's thoughts. It was soft and deeper than his, and it hurt to hear it. _No No No No he can't see me like this, I'm a mess I haven't even I haven't fuck fuck fuck._

Dream made his way over, cautiously, as if he was approaching a wounded animal. George squeezed his arms and buried his face. He never wanted Clay to see him like this; he wanted Clay to only see him happy and not have to deal with his problems. This was _his_ problem, and he didn't want to hinder Clay with it. He had laughed it off as a joke whenever Clay mentioned his color blindness; he refused to show the true pain and fear he felt as the color slowly began to fade from his vision. Clay knowing would make reality truly set in for the both of him, George knew it was over, but Clay didn't. His smile. George only needed his smile.

"George ar-are you okay?" His words were soft, it made George feel safe and warm, but it also made him feel fear. Fear that Clay would find out.

He tried to speak, only for a knot in his throat to stop in his tracks. He shook harder, humiliated that his crush had to see his demise.

Dream was next to him now, his hand on George's shoulder, rubbing his back softly. Heat spread throughout his body. He was on fire. Burning, because of Clay's touch melting mentally and emotionally from the simple physical action. His walls were cracking even further.

"You didn't send me your usual good morning text," Clay chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood, "you weren't home either, so I-" his voice cracked. His words filled with worry to the point that anyone could tell how much Dream truly cared for his friend.

Of course, George hadn't answered the messages; He had forgotten his phone and wallet; only bringing himself and his keys. He tried to respond to his friend, tried to say everything was okay, but he couldn't. Nothing would come out, and as the taller man's arms wrapped around him, he began to cry even heavier, sobbing at the top of his lungs.


	2. Oil Paints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bath time? ;) A small glimpse into Dream's thoughts when it comes to this entire situation, and when it comes to George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! So I figured out how to do titles and chapters and now I feel really dumb haha.  
> This chapter is primarily going to be focused on Dream's thoughts please tell me how you feel about this set-up!  
> Please don't copy my work or post anywhere else :)  
> If you guys could share I would be so happy!
> 
> ALSO: This isn't real, and if either of the people shipped in this novel ask me to take it down, I will! I just do this for fun and enjoy writing :)

Clay had helped George through panic attacks millions of times. Even when separated by the sea, he was able to reason with George and give him some sense of comfort. However, nothing had been as bad as this. It felt like he couldn't reach George or truly comfort him; it hurt and even made him panic. 

Before Clay found George, he had already had an irking feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong after the conversation they had last night. George had been much quieter than usual, and panic had already edged itself into his voice. He could tell something was wrong, and when his best friend didn't answer, he knew that his intuition had been spot on. 

George, the slightly smaller boy, was seemingly so important to Dream. Every time he smiled, his brown eyes crinkled, his face beaming. Dream wanted that to be the only facial expression he ever made around him. And seeing George huddled into a ball on the ground sobbing, made an immense pressure squeeze his heart. All he wanted to do was hold him tight and rub circles on his back, playing with his hair, maybe even kissing his forehead.

But this wasn't the time for his dreams, _ha how ironic is it that my nickname is Dream, but my dreams will never come true._

The smaller man was shivering underneath him, clutching his shirt as if it was the last thing he could hold on to while teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to fall off. Clay hugged him tighter and felt George's breath hitch; he pushed the smaller man's head on his chest and refused to let go.

It hurt. It was so painful knowing that George was hiding something from him, hiding something that seemed to be tearing him apart, ripping him inside out.

He did this often, hiding his feelings because they 'weren't important.' Because of that, Dream had gotten really good at reading George's emotion. Him rubbing his hands meant he was anxious, and anytime he chewed on his lip, he was about to burst into tears. He had different obscure signs for each stage of panic, something subtle that only someone who really cared would notice. Clay was that person.

George had started to calm down, his breathing still rough but slowly growing steadier with each minute. Clay started to hum, playing with George's hair and completely forgetting about the rain. As soon as he started humming, he could feel George lean into Dream's heart thumped. _Stop this shit Clay, you are his friend and his friend_ **_only_ ** _._ With the adrenaline from his panic attack slowly washing away, George began to violently shiver, the cold rushing towards him and gripping him with its tight hold. 

Upon seeing that, Clay started to take off his jacket, slowly wrapping it around the smaller man's figure. George opened his mouth to protest, but Clay gave him a stern look and shook his head.

He continued to hum for a few minutes, humming silly toons that the brunette seemed to enjoy. George's stomach growled, and his face turned beet red. They had been sitting there in silence for what in actuality was 40 minutes, soaking in the comfort of each other's company. There was no judgment from Clay, just silent understanding and patience. 

"Cmon," Clay whispered, trying to help George up, his legs still weak. "I know you haven't had anything to eat or had any water, and seeing as you just cried a few buckets..." He chuckled slightly, hoping for a laugh; George gave a sympathetic smile; Clay was content with that.

George tried to stand up, but inevitably he stumbled, legs dropping, still weak, and clutching on to Clay for dear life. Clay laughed, wrapping one arm under the lighter and smaller man's legs, picking him up and pressing him against his chest. George let out a squeak, his face turning an even brighter red. "I'll happily carry you wherever princess," He teased, the heat radiating from Clay's face.

He could tell that George was trying to compose himself, and secretly he wished he wouldn't try. But Clay didn't even have the nerve to tell George about his feelings. The rain had softened, turning into a soft drizzle. George tugged Clay's sleeve pulling him back into the present, "Wh-Where are we going?" George had pressed for an answer.

He shrugged, smiling, "to my place."

The place that Dream called home was a small townhouse three streets over from the park and was in a slightly better neighborhood compared to George's apartment. The townhouse was made of a deep garnet brick, which was engulfed with English ivy. He had planted the ivy in hopes of it just wrapping around the rail on his porch. Only for him to find out later, while helplessly trying to dig it out of his brick, that it was invasive. He had given up after the first five minutes and quickly grew fond of it. 

Even though it was a small townhouse, it was actually quite spacious and open concept. 

It, unlike George's apartment, smelled of oil paint and paint thinner. His studio was on the first floor and encompassed his entire living room; the couch had sadly fallen victim to Clay's feverish painting style. He had left his apartment in a mess when he went to find George; he had been in the middle of a self-portrait. The features muddled and his bone structure slightly off, he sighed after glancing over it. _It's not time to over-analyze now; focus on George, focus on him. You usually can; why are you wallowing in self-loathing now?_

Just like the outside of his house, the inside of his apartment was also infested with plants. It was his attempt at countering the oil fumes, as he usually suffocated in them when forgetting to open the windows (which was often). Sadly, it didn't really help.

George had started to squirm in the taller man's arms, uncomfortable with being held for so long. Yet, he didn't try and push away from him. _A good sign._ Clay looked down at him, "I hope you wouldn't ever let go," he mumbled to himself.

His friend looked up at him feeling the air from Clay's voice brushing against his head. He looked confused.

_Thank god he hadn't heard it. Where the fuck is your self-control, Clay?_

Clay softly placed him on the worn-down couch, the only seating left in his living room. George began to protest, feeling extremely conscious of the wetness of his clothes and the warmth of Dream's jacket. He could feel every part of his body clearly, his hair sticking to his neck, the wetness making him extremely uncomfortable; he began to fidget again, rubbing his hand.

As Clay got up to start a bath for George, George unconsciously grabbed the cusp of his shirt. He stiffened slightly, looking down at him.

"I'll be right back; I'm going to get you some fresh clothes and a towel," he reassured him, coming to the conclusion that the bath wouldn't be a good idea for George. He attempted to ruffle George's wet hair.

George refused to let go. _Ah, it's this stage_ , Clay thought to himself. 

He once again picked him up and slowly walked up the stairs, pushing the bathroom door open.

Although there was only one bathroom, it was quite large. The cactus green walls heavily complimented the jungle of plants in it. After the spreading of the English Ivy outside of his house, Clay began to realize how much plants truly comforted him. They forced him to get up; just so he could take care of them. It was one of the only things, besides George, which could pull Dream from his painting fits. It gave him a sense of responsibility and stability. 

Clay grabbed a towel from the rack behind him while George began to strip. Just hearing the rustle of clothes falling left Clay breathless. George was fully exposing himself to him. He was already vulnerable as it is now, but with his clothes off, he would be a different kind of vulnerable that Clay only experienced during their late-night discord calls. During those calls, they would talk of deep yet nonsensical topics and occasionally, every so often, talk about their internalized conflict. _Well, I won't be able to sleep well tonight,_ Clay sighed, exasperated by the thoughts that were swarming his brain. He had to mentally prepare himself for the action of turning around. He wasn't ready.

His heart was thumping out of his chest as he slowly turned around to a George who was just in his underwear. He quickly turned away, eyes dashing for another place to find that wasn't his friend. He threw a towel at him, "Here, something to cover yourself; I'll dry your hair." Clay picked up another towel, this time heading towards George while holding his breath. The towel he had given him had really helped Clay's consciousness.

Clay crouched down, smiling at George, wrapping the towel around George's head, drying his hair off. George placed his hand on Clay's; Clay swore he could hear his heartbeat through his throat, "you don't have to do this, Clay," George whispered hoarsely, throat tired from his uncontrollable sobbing.

A chuckle escaped Clay's lips as he grinned, "George, it's okay, I _want_ to do this; you mean so much to me, this is the least I can do."

"I-I'm sorry that you had to see me like this, Clay."

"Never be sorry about expressing your feelings George, you have a right to be happy."

"But-"

"Stop it. I want to help you; accept my kindness," Clay smiled. 

George's stomach yielded a low rumble stopping him from responding to Clay's comment. It was already 4 pm at this point, and they had yet to eat. Seeing as both of them had horrible sleeping schedules, and neither had the time to eat due to George's panic attack. Clay took George's silence as a win and handed George over a pair of clothes. "Here, why don't you get dressed, and I can make us something to eat," he paused when George started examining the clothes. "Also," He coughed, "sorry that the clothes are so big, y'know height difference." The smaller boy smiled and even slightly laughed.

"Oh yeah! You don't have to worry about the underwear; I've only ever used em once," Clay winked briskly, getting up and walking out the door. He didn't even have to look at George to realize that his face was beet red. "CLAY!" George screamed, incredibly flustered. _Now that's a real win._

Clay walked down the stairs, humming happily and heading toward the kitchen. The kitchen took up the other half of the downstairs floor, right across from the space he used as a Studio. It laid further back in his apartment, and the walls were a dark chestnut, the only color that wasn't green or white within the house. Clay opened up a few cabinets, searching for the pots and pans that he barely ever used. He finally found the cabinet with the pans and brought out a deep frying pan that would hold what he had planned to make.

He swiftly moved towards the fridge while putting a second pot on the stove with water to boil; he took out chicken and alfredo sauce. God knows why he had alfredo sauce in his fridge, but hey, at least he had it. Although Clay didn't cook often, although when he did, he cooked well. He practically danced around the kitchen while creating the masterpiece that was going to be their dinner; chicken alfredo. 

It was simple, but George's favorite; he always gushed about how much he loved Dream's cooking, especially anything with chicken or alfredo; the combination was perfect. 

As Clay began to plate the food, George began to quietly walk down the steps, tilting his head upwards to smell the delicious aroma of chicken and white sauce. Clay looked up and grinned, "sup handsome," he teased, "how ya feeling?"

Dream looked him up and down; the clothes were slightly big all over. George had had to cuff the pants multiple times so he wouldn't trip over them, and the long jumper didn't really fit him either. _Exactly, like a boyfriend shirt_ , Dream instinctively thought and then cursed himself for it; _he shouldn't think of his friend like that;_ **_he's his friend_ **. George coughed, his face growing red; Clay realized he fucked up and checked him out for way too long. "L-let's eat," Clay stumbled, embarrassed that George had caught him staring.

Clay never felt the need to buy any extra furniture because when he did eat, it was in front of his easel, so they sat on the couch to eat dinner.

The air around the two was slightly awkward; the reality had settled in for George, and a million worries were going through his mind. Clay was patient; he didn't want to scare George, but he also didn't want to suffocate him with love. 

After a few silent minutes of eating, Clay looked over at the smaller man again, his hair was ruffled, and his eyes sunken in from having only 2 hours asleep. He looked horribly malnourished and full of anxiety. His eyes were darting around the room, trying to find a topic to distract him from his problems. Clay's smile faltered, he didn't like seeing him like this, and he never would. He coughed, catching the brunette's attention, "do you want to talk about it? I mean, you don't have to, but I will **always** be here for you, George," Clay had emphasized the always.

His words were full of emotion; he cared so much for George and wanted him to be happy. The smaller man jumped a little at being addressed. His eyes looked away as he responded, "m-my eye just hurt a little, and I've been behind on commissions." Clay could tell he wasn't telling the full truth by his physical actions, his sporadic movements giving away his lies.

Clay sat his empty plate beside him and put his hand on George's knee, rubbing it, his eyes filled with concern, "If you ever want to tell me anything else, I'm always here." He wanted to hug him so badly but couldn't; he didn't want to ruin their friendship. "How about we schedule an optometrist appointment for you just see if anything isn't okay."

George nodded slightly, staying silent. Clay got up and took their plates, putting them in the sink. "Do you want to hang out and watch a movie? We could have a sleepover," He giggled. Clay really didn't want to leave George alone especially, when he was like this. He saw George's shoulders relax, and he nodded. Clay put on a movie and let it play softly in the background as George and Clay sat in comfortable silence. Neither of the two tried to spark conversation, scared that it would end in uncomfortable silence. They fell asleep next to each other on the couch, the hum of the movie playing in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having an absolute blast writing these chapters, but please don't expect me to have a chapter out every day! My goal is every week or every other.  
> If you could leave me a comment about how you liked this chapter, and share this with friends, that'd be great!
> 
> Also, not gonna lie this took a while to edit and I am exhausted, I hope y'all enjoy it! It isn't my favorite chapter, so I might come back and make a few changes :).  
> Word Count: 2,525


	3. The Good Days(?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and Clay met through Minecraft as a sort of escapism. What exactly happened to them for them to live in the same town, and for Clay to move to another country just for his friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me writing this chapter on my phone because of the idea that I had got extremely clear after I published chapter 2. 💀  
> Also, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! It's just some background information that I think was necessary. The next chapter will be in George's POV so look forward to that! :)
> 
> TW: Mental Health, Abuse

George and Clay had originally met in a Minecraft chat room, back when they felt they could rule the world just by playing the simple block game. It was a skyblock based server where both of them would spend late nights during the summer talking for hours. For Clay, it was a distraction from the heat. For George, it was a distraction from his family and himself.

George’s family life was complicated, even back then. His mom and dad were super strict and believed that mental illnesses were just a scam. And seeing as 13-year-old George had a severe anxiety disorder, he began to hate himself. He started to think everything was in his head, and it was all lie, so he attempted to distract himself. 

He started off playing random free games on the computer, club penguin, Webkinz, etc., but then he found Minecraft. A game where he could truly express his creativity and forget about his problems; it comforted him. And, he was able to make some really good friends through the game.

One of them being Clay. Clay’s username was Dream on the Skyblock server that both he and George played on. Clay had started playing Minecraft to help distract him from the heat. Watching internet videos while sitting in a chair, his skin dripping with sweat, wasn’t ideal for Clay. So when he could finally immerse himself in a game and pretend like he was his Minecraft character, it was a relief for him. 

George and Dream met when George asked if anyone on the server knew how to make a cactus farm. At that point, Clay had been playing a lot longer compared to George and offered to help. After that, they were inseparable. Always chatting and staying on the server for hours.

After a few months, they began to also talk offline every minute they had free. They even synced up their sleep schedules, so they had more time to talk. Dream ranting about his art teacher praising him, and George, babbling on, about really loving to take photos. Small giggles and smiles being exchanged by the two of them anytime they said or did something silly. 

That’s when Dream and George made the color blind game. George had never realized he was colorblind, only that he saw things differently. And because his parents wouldn’t let him get tested because they thought it was fake, George found out what exactly was wrong with him because of Dream.

It wasn’t really even a game, but a test to see if George was losing even more of the cones in his eyes. Dream would show him different shapes and fruits, questioning George about what color the object was and what he saw.

It was fun for George, and unlike the other students in his middle school, he knew Dream really meant it as a joke. Using it as a game, they could always play to make sure they stayed in contact.

Their life went on like this until High School. George slowly drifted away from Minecraft after his parents started preaching that it was the ‘devil’s game’ and was ruining kid’s brains. At that point, George began to have more frequent panic attacks, hyperventilating in public. Even crying in his school’s bathroom at the thought of having to ask someone to sit with him during lunch.

During these moments, he would text Dream, using him as his safe space. They would talk about nonsensical things such as the new movies coming out or even new music. It became harder and harder for the two of them to be apart.

Then the 12th year hit both of them. 

George’s mental health had gotten so much worse, and his parents were starting to pick up on it. Every time they ate dinner together, he could feel their judgemental stares, eyeing him up and down every time he did something slightly out of what they thought was ‘ordinary.’

At dinner, they even began to expand on their ignorance, laughing at homeless people and even pretending to gag at the topic of homosexuals. Because George was older, they thought they didn't have to filter themselves. 

Because of this, George began to make up excuses altogether, skipping meals, or heading out for walks to the park when dinner was about to happen. That’s when he started taking solace in the bluebird. The bluebird would never judge him for being different, nor would it ever bully him for being color blind.

He would frequently call Dream at the park, hoping their time difference didn't mean he was sleeping. Clay would always pick up; he was always secretly waiting for George to call him because, at that point, he had picked up on how George hid his emotions.

They would then do as they usually did, rambling on about things that didn’t truly matter, and Dream would fill the silence by talking about how his day went. Clay made sure to never ask how George was during these calls, he had tried that before, and George would swiftly change the topic, acting like it never happened. 

This ritual continued until Year 13 year, George broke. Mid-Winter, at the beginning of the second semester, the school called George’s parents concerned about his mental health. He had always been a good student in hopes of not having to sit and talk with his family about getting his grades up during dinner. But senioritis was getting to him, and he started to slip. He already knew he wasn’t going to university; it didn’t make sense. Seeing as he wanted to be a photographer and get out of the hell hole that was his phone.

George was in his room at the time his parents received the call. His father came up the stairs slamming his door open, “George,” his voice was sharp as if it could cut him, “we need to talk. Now.” 

George’s heart started to race, his breathing hitched, and his eyes watering. _Oh god, oh god, what did I do, I-_ He nodded meekly, getting up from his bed and heading downstairs with his father, his eyes glued to the floor. When he arrived in the living room, it felt like a torture chamber. 

The white walls contrasted the table in the center of the room; a single light had gone out made the one left look as if it was framing his mother’s face. The oak table was especially dark; there was no table cloth or plates or anything that he would usually see when he came home. Instead, what sat in the middle of the barren table was a letter. George’s heart dropped; he thought he might faint. What had he done wrong? He was always good at lying and making sure his appearance was good enough for his parents. His mother motioned to the seat across from her, “sit down sweetie, it’s time we had a talk.”

_No, no no no no, not like this, this can’t be helping. Please god-if you exist-help me._

“George, honey, we got a call from your school.” His mom said gently, although the end of the sentence held a hint of irritation. 

“As well as this note from your doctor,” his father chimed in, unhappily staring at his son. 

Blood was rushing through George’s ears, and he twitched when his father chimed into what his mother was saying. He couldn’t handle this; he didn’t want to be here, he needed to go to the bluebird, to talk to Dream about stupid stuff that didn’t matter. He wasn’t ready to face his parent’s disapproval yet. 

“What did they say?” His voice was almost a whisper, he knew if he talked any louder, his voice would crack, and he would be in tears.

”They are saying you have anxiety, George, isn’t that funny? There is no way our son would have anxiety. It’s not like he was raised in an abusive household,” his mother laughed, completely in denial.

He could feel the vomit rising from the back of his throat; he only nodded, giving a weakened smile. He was rubbing his fingers together violently under the table, his leg shaking. _It’s over; they are going to find out, I’ll be kicked out I-_

His father coughed, bringing him out of his thoughts, “you don’t have anxiety do you, George?” He looked at him; his expression was cold.

George tried to answer, but he couldn’t; he stumbled over every word he tried to say, “I-I.” He closed his eyes. He knew what was going to happen.

His father was furious now, slamming his hand on the table in front of George, “oh, for fucks sake, George, you HAVE to be kidding.”

George stayed silent.

His dad scoffed, “so it’s true, huh? What are you a fucking pussy? Why are you doing this to me, George, after all, I have done for you!” His voice had raised to a yell. He grabbed George’s face forcing him to look at him, “you listen here, you stop with this bullshit. Look at what you have done to your poor mother,” he forced George to look at his mom, who was silently sobbing, arms to her eyes across this table. 

George had gone cold, completely numb. He couldn’t control his movements; he couldn’t say anything. He just watched as his father lifted him up from his chin, opened the door, and threw him out of the house. “You come back when you’ve gotten your shit together,” his father growled, slamming the door. 

Tears streamed down George’s face as he felt his body get up, him instinctively running to the bluebird. He could barely see, his vision blurred, and his knees ached from when his dad threw him out. He felt the warm blood gushing from his kneecaps, flow down his leg.

When he got there, he gasped, hyperventilating. He couldn’t breathe; the world was falling apart.

He instinctively picked up his phone, dialing Clay. Clay answered instantly, “what’s up my dude?”

George sniffled, “I need you here, Clay please,” His voice was a slight whisper.

Dream moved to George’s town right after graduation; no explanation was needed when Clay heard the pain in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the slightly shorter chapter! I wanted to go into detail about their background together and how they ended up in the same town. :)  
> Also, I kind of projected myself into this chapter oops. Hopefully, you guys enjoyed your daily dose of sadness haha. :)


	4. Self Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George panics again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W SELF HARM  
> A little more angst aye? Might just do this for the rest of the plotline cause suffering is great.  
> Funfact: I had to listen to My City Gave Me Asthma to get in the mood to write this :)

George woke up encompassed in a comfortable warmth; he pressed himself closer into it, listening to the deep pattern of Clay's breath. He had completely forgotten the events of last night, completely intoxicated with the feeling of Clay up against his body. It felt like he was melting, the heat shared between the two felt almost like molten lava. The long jumper that Clay had given to him the night before gave him another small high. _Is this what it's like to be in love and have a boyfriend?_ He shook his head; _it's not time to think like this, just enjoy the moment._

George had unconsciously started humming; he always did it when he was happy. The taller man whose arms wrapped around him moved slightly; George looked up at him, seeing if he had woken up yet, but it seemed he hadn't. He closed his eyes again and laid there; he wished the world would freeze right there, and he could stay in this moment forever. Then the thoughts came rushing in again.

In one last attempt to let him escape his own mind, George laid his hand on Clay's face, brushing his hair away from his eyes. He looked at the taller boy's soft face and grimaced; his dirty blonde hair was completely gray. Tears started welling up in his eyes, and he looked up towards the ceiling, forcing them back down. _I can no longer experience his genuine beauty._

As if Clay could tell how upset George was, he wrapped his arms even tighter around George, nestling his chin into George's neck. George had to hold in a squeak, his face becoming redder. He sniffled and let himself relax once again in Clay's arms. He felt like he could hide. As if his friend was his home. He felt safe.

Right in that peaceful moment, he fell asleep again.

-

George woke up to the soft sound of sizzling bacon. The smell of food wafting around the house, encircling the room and fighting for control against the harsh smell of oil paints. He always enjoyed the differences between his apartment and Clay's. Clay's apartment made him feel more alive: the smells, the sounds, Clay's voice-it was sweet and warm. Something that let George desperately grip onto reality. 

Before he could overthink and be engulfed by his panic, he got up slowly, wrapping the blanket that Clay had placed onto him carefully around his shoulders. George took small steps towards the open kitchen and settled down at the table, observing Clay cooking. Whenever Clay was in deep thought or George came over, he would cook these elaborate breakfasts and hum tunes to himself. Today it seemed like it was both. Clay barely noticed George sitting down and kept busily moving around the kitchen.

He shuffled around the room, picking up pots, washing dishes while eggs were cooking. He only became aware of George's existence while plating the food they would both be eating. 

George smiled at him, Clay's shoulders relaxed. George knew Clay was worried about him because of what happened yesterday; the guilt began to set in. He had promised to never get Clay involved after asking him to come to England. He had already done so much for him, and he couldn't ask for more. Even after pleading for Clay to come to England, George never actually told him what had really happened, always changing the subject or laughing it off.

The shorter man's stomach began to ache from the stress. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He was interrupted from the panic when Clay tapped his shoulder with a slight grin, placing down a plate of food in front of him. "What do you want to drink George?" He said softly, "Orange Juice?" 

George nodded, quickly bringing himself back to reality. George looked down at his plate, loaded with potatoes, eggs, sausages. This was way more than George could ever eat, but he accepted it gratefully. He knew Clay just wanted him to be healthy.

As Clay placed the orange juice in front of him and sat down in his own seat, a new silence settled in. Neither of them tried to say anything in a desperate way to try and keep the peace, to not trigger George into another panic.

After a few long minutes of silence, Clay spoke up, "So about yesterday-"

"Clay, I'm okay," George tried to dismiss the conversation, "my eye just hurt a little, and I panicked because of stress."

Clay nodded, taking the hint. He focused on his food for a few minutes before attempting to talk about it again. "Maybe... We should set up an eye appointment just to make sure everything is okay." Clay's voice was incredibly soft and slightly shaky; he didn't want George to be offended by his suggestion. He was articulate and caring; even George could see that.

Dread settled into the bottom of George's stomach; he attempted a smile. _We, he said we._ This was no longer just his problem; he knew that Clay wouldn't let him suffer alone anymore. _Fuck, maybe if I accept and go to the Doctor, this can all blow over._ It seemed like a good plan, so George went with it. "Yeah, _we_ should set up an appointment. That would really help. I-I can do it later," Another attempt of a smile.

The taller man's expression brightened; George could see the relief on his face.

For the rest of the meal, they talked about little things and reminisced on past memories. After finishing his food, George excused himself, saying something along the lines of him having to feed Cat.

Clay nodded and walked him to the door. As George set off on his walk home in the cool air, he could feel Clay's eyes on the back of his head until he turned the corner that Clay's cozy apartment was located on. 

Everything that George had bottled up inside to seem okay in front of Clay suddenly started to seep out of him. He began to process what had happened yesterday. Clay hugging him, him sobbing in his arms, the shivering, and Clay laying next to him falling asleep. _What the fuck just happened yesterday? How did I even get here? How did everything seemingly go in a hundred different directions?_ The sudden realization hit _My vision, fuck, Clay is going to try and find out about what's wrong with me because of this._

A million things were going through George's mind, and the panic began to bubble in his chest. He refused to let it overtake him until he got home. He thought of Cat. Cat was always his number one responsibility; he had to feed her before he could panic. That was the rule.

As his breath began to slowly get unsteadier, the cold air he inhaled felt like knives puncturing his lungs. He couldn't take much longer of this. 

George's slow walk home slowly turned into a jog and then into a run. 

Once George got back home, the panic that he had been holding in at breakfast engulfed him. His breath hitched, and tears started streaming down his face. He slid down the door of his apartment, placing his head in between his knees.

He felt as if the entire world had frozen on him; his limbs were frozen. He was so cold. The heat that Clay encompassed him in was now entirely gone. George tried whatever he could to warm himself up, rubbing his hands across his arms. Inevitably, George frantically found a sharp object that could help him with his task. When he found one and felt the warm blood trickle down his skin, giving him the smallest hint of heat, he realized what he had done.

George hadn't ever harmed himself like this on purpose, and the fact that he did it so effortlessly scared him. How could he harm himself so easily? He felt ashamed and disappointed; he no longer felt real. The tears came down harder as the red liquid started to seep into his pants and shirt, slowly falling on to the floor. 

George had always called himself a coward; he even whimped out at the thought of hurting himself when he was little. If he ever wanted to harm himself, he wouldn't eat for days or maybe even binge and purge. Never once had he done something like this to himself.

The invisible reigns that held him back from injuring himself were suddenly released. It was terrifying; George started to shiver violently, even the blood hadn't been able to warm him up. _I need Clay. I need Clay._ He frantically searched the ground for his phone, his hands shaking violently. It was as if he couldn't see, the tears piling up in his eyes, blurring his vision, making it impossible for him to see his phone on the ground.

He froze. He couldn't ask Clay for help; he had already bothered him so much. This would surely push him even farther away, and he couldn't afford that. 

George needed Clay. He felt like an addict. Without Clay in his life, everything became dull; there would be no reason to live anymore. No one to trust, no one to love.

It would be complete emptiness. A void.

A small meow coming from the stairs pushed George out of his thoughts. _Cat._ Cat slowly came closer to George, rubbing herself against his leg, softly purring. She could tell something was wrong. 

George picked up Cat and buried his face into her fur. She stayed still, purring and softly meowing as if she was saying it would all be okay. _This is real, I'm real, Cat is real; George, get yourself together._

George got up holding Cat in one hand, his other arm limp, it felt like lead, and he couldn't bother to pick it up to help hold her. 

"It's time for food baby girl," his voice was a soft whisper. He was real, but he still felt hollow.

Once the food hit the bowl, Cat jumped down, and George once again sank to the ground. He couldn't move; it was as if all the energy Clay and Cat gave him was gone. He didn't want to eat, go outside, or even sleep.

While George was wallowing in his own sadness, he remembered Clay's words, _maybe you should go see a Doctor._ George thought. He had promised after all. 

He had never seen a doctor or therapist about his mental health or his eyes. He had always bottled it up, in hopes that maybe, if he didn't think about it, it would disappear. Suddenly, George felt guilty again. He felt like a real sinner.

He picked up his phone, still avoiding messaging Clay, and instead, calling his Doctor asking for an eye appointment.

Once the call was done, he set his phone down and got enough energy to pick himself up and move upstairs to the bathroom. His arm stung, and he didn't want to be reminded of what he had done.

George turned the shower to the highest temperature it could possibly be on, and slipped out of his blood-stained clothes, cringing as the fabric from his shirt rubbed against his fresh wounds. He stepped into the shower and crumbled on the floor, letting the boiling water run over his back. Watching it turn red as it hit his body and slowly ran down the drain. It burned, stinging his skin; maybe with this, he could melt away.

He closed his eyes; _If only I could just not exist._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late and shorter release! This chapter was really difficult to write and my own mental health slowly began to project itself into the writing, so I took a small break. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Sorry for any rough patches! I really appreciate you guys :)

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS  
> I really want to continue, and I would absolutely love it if you guys gave feedback (or have any ideas, I have a few plans for this work but not a lot) or even just commented.  
> If you guys like it then I can write it faster cause motivation *
> 
> Also thank you to Katie for supporting my bad writing and drawing habits HAHA  
> Please don't copy my work! Thanks  
> Hope to see ya again soon :)


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